Father, Don't Judge Him
by NotThatSunny
Summary: Publicly humiliated as a result of Dean's actions, Dean would never expect Castiel to agree to help him in any way. But when everyone around them seems to be against them both, he finds that Castiel is all he has left. High School AU: Cas and Dean are seventeen. Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

"Novak!" Everyone in the room froze as a single man, with a face like thunder, stormed across the room. It had been an uneventful lesson so far, and the students had been praying for something interesting to happen. Castiel Novak had not. Sitting quietly in the corner, day after day, he alternated between studying his textbook and the trees outside, where currently the last blossoms of spring were falling. He never presented his teachers with problems, so this outburst puzzled – and worried – him.

"Yes, Mr MacLeod?" he replied, hesitantly. His face was calm, but his fingers trembled as he put down his pen, and he flinched – visibly – when MacLeod slammed a folder on the table, right in front of him.

"Does this-" he thrust the folder towards him "-belong to you?" He cast his eyes over the folder, which had been flipped open, and saw hours of his own hard work, neatly printed numbers and faultless calculations, all clipped into place. "Yes, sir." His brow crinkled with confusion. There was nothing wrong with his work, he knew. But the older man's eyes, if possible, grew colder, a brown that was almost black. "Then I suppose you can explain this?" he turned over the page, and the boy's stomach twisted.

On a single page amongst his notes, where he would never have spotted it, there were insults scrawled in bold, black ink. They were not his own handwriting, but instead, were clearly about him. Some of them were barely legible, but Castiel could guess what they said. The crude, malicious words rang in his ears almost every day, after all. He didn't look at his teacher, who had previously sang his praises – he knew the expression that would meet him. Disappointment, disbelief, disgust.

"Nothing to say, have you? No?" he shook his head, still staring at the paper. There wasn't anything that could save him now. From the whispering around the room, he didn't need to explain anything. But his teacher didn't stop. His voice filled with venom – something he'd never heard from Mr MacLeod – and in a sentence, he made the young man's worst nightmares seem like daydreams.

"Maybe you should stand up, and tell your classmates what you've just made me read."

Dean Winchester's bright green eyes watched the dark-haired boy walk slowly to the front of the room. Beside him, three other boys sniggered to each other, but he said nothing. In truth, he hadn't expected MacLeod to react this badly – most people in school knew Novak was gay.

Apparently oblivious to the nervous whispers (though of course, he was not) the boy reached the front, gripping his folder so tightly that his knuckles were white. Slowly, painfully, he looked up, but didn't meet the eyes of anyone. Nobody there would offer him a way out, or any sympathy. He cleared his throat, and forced his eyes to focus on the writing. He still didn't recognize it, but his eyes flickered over to the other side of the room – just for a moment – to where Dean and his friends were sitting. They were waiting patiently, and the sudden silence made him shiver. He took a slow, shaky breath, and began to read.

The first word hit Dean the hardest. It cut through the air like a dagger, more painful, more piercing than a gunshot; god, it bit into him like the sting of a whip. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, no one laughed as the student read out the words of his own bullies, taunting himself, in a twisted way – but Dean didn't breathe.

It went on and on and on, Castiel burning scarlet, voice growing weaker, bones shaking, but he still kept speaking – _goddamnit, he'll never stop_ – until there was only one word left.

Exhausted, defeated, biting back tears, Castiel Novak raised his head again and whispered the only true word on the page. "Gay." He was frozen there, mouth slightly open, blue eyes staring into nothingness. His voice was low and gentle, but the word tasted bitter on his tongue. The bell rang, and the class began to leave, but he was rooted to the spot.

When Dean left the room, Mr MacLeod was giving Castiel multiple detentions.

"So he made him read it out? In front of the whole class?" His girlfriend's face was grave, eyes wide with concern – she was kinder than most people in the world, Dean thought. "Yeah – I don't think anyone could really believe it. MacLeod's not normally like that. Weird, huh?" he shrugged, giving her half a smile. "You coming over tonight?" he asked, leaning against the corner of the building. In the distance, three boys were whooping and yelling, waving their arms at him.

"You might as well go with them. I've got an essay to be working on anyway. Bye, Dean." They kissed, and she began to walk away.

"See ya, Lise" he called, smiling after her. He turned to the three waiting for him, and the smile faded. Hurriedly, he caught up to them.

"You done gossiping, Dean?" The three of them mocked him, but he was used to it now. They could be a lot, lot worse.

"At least I can speak to girls, Gordon." He replied to the one that had spoken, smirking, and they all chuckled together.

"You coming?" Another asked.

Dean stopped to look at his friends. Gordon was tall – not as tall as him, but probably nearing six feet – and well built, with a combination of powerful muscles and dark skin that made people around him beware. Not really because he was black, Dean supposed, but because he was Gordon Walker. He had brains as well as bulk though – you'd be a fool to make an enemy out of him. Jake Talley, standing next to him, was much easier to predict. He was hot-headed and vicious, ready to lash out at anyone who challenged him, though he wasn't as strong as Gordon or Dean. He was lean and fast, with skin even darker than Gordon's, and had scars on his knuckles where he'd gotten angry, and punched through planks of wood. He was a pretty good friend though, and was grinning at Dean now, waiting for him to reply.

"Ah-no, guys, I told my brother I'd walk with him today." Dean said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, I guess."

The third one frowned, looking unimpressed. "Oh, yes, I forgot about _Sammy_. You've got such a soft spot for that one, Dean."

Dean tilted his head, and the response came smoothly. "You know how my old man is, Alastair. Don't act like you've never pushed Meg's bike along the street. Pink flowers, right? Used to belong to you?" Both boys stared with narrowed eyes, daring the other to step up. After a moment, the shorter boy laughed, and Dean relaxed.

"Whatever, man. See you later." They left, and Dean headed back towards the school building.

Although Alastair was the smallest of the four, and rarely fought anyone, he was the one who made Dean most nervous. Alastair was smart; he knew the right ways to get to people, the ways that caused most pain, and had no qualms whatsoever about carrying out his little plots. Besides that, he was good at 'persuading' people to do what he wanted, and he certainly had Jake under his thumb, though Gordon was harder to control.

He was the one who had make Dean write in Castiel Novak's math folder. And Dean was ashamed – _god, he hated himself for it_ – but now the damage was done.

He spotted his brother leaving the history block, which fortunately was right next to the math and science building. "Sam," he shouted, and the brown-haired boy turned towards him. "Hey, Dean!" his little brother replied, grinning. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Gordon and-and those guys?" he asked curiously, pulling his bag onto his shoulders. Dean reached out and adjusted a twisted strap, and Sam wrinkled his nose.

"Dean," he whined, rolling his eyes, "stop it." The older boy smiled widely, grabbing his brother and pulling him in to ruffle his hair with one hand. "Dean!"

"Save it, Sam, you're still just a kid." Sam wriggled out of his grip.

"Dean, I'm thirteen." Dean laughed, and punched Sam – gently – on the shoulder.

"Yeah, and you're still tiny." He teased.

"You wait," Sam replied, pushing his chest out in mock pride, "I'll be taller than you one day."

Dean shook his head jokingly. At seventeen, he was already six feet tall, and still growing. Nevertheless, he'd let his brother indulge in the fantasy – Sam was almost a foot smaller than him. But suddenly, the moment was gone, and he remembered why he was there.

"You're gonna have to walk home alone, kid. I've, uh, got to catch up on work for someone."

"Sounds about right," Sam's eyes were bright with amusement.

"You wanna shut up, or am I going to have to make you?" Dean threatened, still grinning. "Just tell Dad, okay?" The younger Winchester nodded and set off, purposely pulling one of his straps to twist it back again.

"Idiot." Dean muttered, as he approached Mr MacLeod's classroom.

"Come in," MacLeod's gruff voice responded after Dean knocked. Shaking himself a little, he opened the door and walked in, to see Novak already sitting in the middle of the room. _Damnit._ It would have been so much easier if he'd got there first.

"I don't suppose you've come to apologise for only handing in half the homework I asked you to do?" The teacher asked sarcastically, ignoring Castiel, who was now staring at Dean. It was only making Dean more nervous. He tried to make his voice low. "Sir, about today-"

"What about today?" The question was loud and clear, making Dean wince. _Stop being a coward,_ he told himself roughly _, you got yourself into this_.

"About, well, him," he nodded his head in the other boy's direction and tried to be discreet, but he was back to writing already anyway. "I just wondered if, maybe-"

"Spit it out, Winchester." MacLeod did not sound impressed.

"Well – I don't understand why he's got detention, sir." MacLeod raised his eyebrows in warning, but Dean carried on, glancing over to his right, where Castiel's pen seemed to be ripping through the paper. "He obviously didn't write the- that stuff – and you did make him _read it_ and-"

"And what? You don't like my teaching? You think you've got a better way, huh?"

Dean was now silent. He stared at his feet, waiting. The sounds of a scratching pen had stopped, and all that could be heard was the clock, ticking, ticking, ticking. _Why didn't you think this through, Dean?_

"Who wrote it?"

Dean jumped, taken aback. It wasn't MacLeod who had spoken, but Castiel. He'd stood up as he said it, and was looking coldly at him, through blue eyes that normally were so calm. His voice was like ice. MacLeod's gaze burned like fire.

"Did I say you could get up, Novak?" The question was threatening, but he ignored it.

"Who wrote it?" Dean looked at him, his heart pounding. He wiped his palms on the back of his jeans.

"Sit down, Novak."

"I said, who wrote it?" Trembling, Castiel took a step towards Dean, fists clenched.

"And I said, _sit_ -"

" _I didn't do it!_ "

"I did."

Castiel moved his gaze from the red-faced teacher to Dean, but Dean had turned back to Mr MacLeod, who was rubbing his beard. There was anger in him, somewhere, he knew. _What now?_ He reached back to rub his left shoulder. It was itching like mad.

"I didn't mean for all this to happen, just-"

"Detention for you, I think, Winchester."

It was better than he expected, to be honest. He and his math teacher didn't always get along, after all.

"You're not being let off though, Novak. Are you going to sit down now or not?" Confused, Dean looked at the other boy, whose expression matched his own.

"But-"

"But-"

"Both of you can do this together. For how, long is up to you. Unless you want me to discuss it with your mother, Novak? Your father, Dean?"

Castiel was sitting down before Dean even got chance to reply. "No, sir." He mumbled, looking down at the desk as Dean dropped his bag onto one of the empty seats, and sat next to it.

"No, sir." Dean echoed.

After what felt like hours of silence, MacLeod left the room to go collect some papers, telling the two of them not to move. Castiel was still writing – he'd not stopped since Dean had joined the detention session. _What a nerd – no wonder he hasn't got any friends,_ Dean thought. But then, this wasn't entirely true. Once, you might have seen him hanging around with a few pretty nice guys, not that he'd ever been friends with Dean. After people found out about his _preferences_ , though, there was no going back. _You wouldn't have thought I could make it any worse._ Dean scowled at the desk in front of him, and the still blank piece of paper.

 _But I did._

"Hey," Dean leaned towards the other student, glancing towards the door. Castiel did not respond, but keep writing. "Castiel." Still nothing. Dean sighed.

"Look, dude, I get it. I shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry. I feel like a piece of crap and you probably think I am. I know it sounds like an excuse, but Alast-"

"You don't get it." Castiel's voice was quiet but vehement. He'd put down his pen. Dean eyed him warily, but he said nothing else.

"Man, I'm sorry. It was wrong. I hope-"

"You hope what? That I can just forget about it, and we can be _friends_?" He was glaring at the desk, seething with anger, but Dean didn't stop.

"I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to apologize!" He rose from his seat, jaw clenched, green eyes narrow. _Why couldn't he just look at him?_

"Well, it's not okay!" Castiel's fist slammed down onto the table, sending the pen skittering onto the floor. He finally looked across at Dean, who could see nothing but pain in his face.

"I thought I had nothing, Winchester. But I was wrong. I _had_ dignity. You and your stupid, testosterone-fuelled gang think you can humiliate me and then act as if nothing happened?! Really?"

"That's enough, boys."

MacLeod had appeared once more. He set a stack of papers on his desk, then walked calmly across to where the pen had rolled to a stop on the ground. He said nothing as he picked it up and handed it to Castiel, then walked to the door and held it open. "Go home, both of you."

Dean stuffed the single piece of paper into his bag and slung it over one shoulder, hurrying to just get out of there. Castiel placed his work carefully into his folder, and gathered his things.

"I had better not hear anything more from the two of you," MacLeod warned as they left. "I'll see you both at four 'o' clock, tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hey, I forgot to write one of these before, and put a disclaimer in - even though we all know that I don't own Supernatural. I hope you enjoy it, and if you have any comments or questions I'm happy to have them!**

"You're going to be late from school? Again?" John Winchester was sitting at the table in his kitchen, eyeing his eldest son over the top of his paper. Dean stood with his back to his father as he watched Sam through the window, who was walking up the street with two of his friends. True to his word, he'd told their father that Dean was working at school, although Dean thought Sam had probably guessed he was in detention. It wouldn't be the first time. "Dean?" The boy turned his head, registering the question with a dazed expression, then realised what he'd said.

"Oh, er, yeah – sorry. I guess Sam can walk with those guys, though. The kid with the glasses seems alright." He picked up his bag from where he'd left it on the floor the night before and made for the door.

"Dean." He stopped, hand hovering above the door handle.

"Dad?" John waited for him to turn his head and look at him.

"It's not just Sam, Dean. I thought you were going to be helping me at the garage? You've not touched the Impala for a week."

The 1967 Chevrolet Impala was what Dean considered his most treasured possession. It used to belong to his father, who had bought it before Dean was even born, and it had been given to him for his sixteenth birthday. After their mother, Mary, had died in a freak house fire when Sam and Dean were small, John had replaced everything, including the car, though he didn't really need to. But he'd kept the Impala in a shed in Winchester's Garage – the family business – meaning to fix it up in years to come for Dean. But when the time came, it turned out John didn't have to. Dean had eagerly began working on his new car from the day it was revealed to him; almost every day he would go down to the garage, with Sam close behind. There, Dean would work tirelessly and his brother would offer helpful tips from any book on mechanics he could find. Now, he knew the Impala better than he knew his own body. Dean intended to follow in his dad's footsteps as a mechanic and had few other ambitions, but he sensed Sammy wasn't going to be the same. He'd seen how fascinated he was with knowledge of other kinds, and he'd always done better at school than Dean. His dad probably would have liked to keep Sam close (he was very protective of him) but Dean reckoned he'd head off to college, and want bigger things than the town where they'd always lived.

Since the incident with Castiel the previous Thursday, Dean simply hadn't had time to visit the garage – she was finished now, over a year later, but he liked to polish and make little adjustments here and there. He'd had detention every day with Novak for a week, and all the other boy did was ignore him and write, write, write. He'd managed to make up an excuse to Alastair as to why he had the detentions, but John merely thought he was working at school. In Dean's opinion, he should've been relieved that his son was actually trying to pass his finals – or pretending to.

"I'll go with Sam this weekend, Dad," he promised, "I've just got a lot going on. I'm crashing in math at the moment." This was true. Dean did actually want to get a good grade, he just didn't seem to _get_ math. It could be the fact that his homework often 'disappeared', or just that he sat next to Jake in the class, who talked and joked and didn't really understand any of it anyway. Closer and closer to finals, he became less and less confident in his chances of success.

"It's alright, I'm not angry. Glad you aren't just wandering the streets with that Walker kid, that's all." John resumed reading the paper, and Dean took the chance to escape.

"Bye!"

Detention was, as usual, painfully boring. Mr MacLeod had a meeting, but had said the two had to do the detention anyway. Over the week, Castiel had gradually begun to seat himself further and further from Dean, leaving him without any hope of entertainment. Not that the two ever actually spoke – Castiel had, understandably, stayed far away from the people responsible for his humiliating experience. Dean, however, found himself searching for him during lunch sometimes, squinting at every dark-haired boy in the corners of classrooms, at the far end of any corridor, or sitting alone in the canteen. He heard that people had been bothering Novak again after what happened, and he felt, well, responsible. Usually the guys thought he was looking for Lisa, or Lisa thought he was looking for the guys. He couldn't spend much time with Sam at school. Sam had his own friends; much better for him to be with them than with Dean's.

Sam would never get along with people like Alastair and Gordon anyway. He wasn't like that. He was probably more likely to be friends with Castiel. They had the same kind of work ethic, at least. As you might find Sam in his room on an evening, Castiel was hunched over his desk, staring intently at his notes.

 _I guess I might as well get to it._ Dean sighed as he got out a textbook and began doing the work MacLeod had set him (many weeks ago). At first, it seemed okay – it was better than sitting in silence, certainly. Distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves from the open windows at either side of the room created a peaceful place to study, and he settled easily. But soon the numbers he'd written made less sense than the ones in his head, and the paper he'd been writing on was covered in wiry black clouds where he'd furiously scribbled out his answers. "Son of a bitch," he hissed to nobody in particular. _Why did it have to be so goddamn hard? Sammy could probably do this, too. Stupid Winchester. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He grabbed the piece of paper, screwed it up into a ball, and threw it at the trash can at the other side of the classroom. It went in, but he got no satisfaction from it. Defeated, he banged his head against the table. It hurt a little, but he did it again, and again. His fingernails dug into his palms, which were damp, and he pressed his knuckles into his temples. The pressure felt better than the headaches he got from this hell. His breathing was ragged as he tried to push his away his stress.

"Could you be much louder?" Hearing the low, irritated voice from the back of the room, Dean stopped, his head poised above the wooden surface. A faint sigh of relief came from Castiel's direction, so Dean grudgingly picked up a pen and tried again, with the same task. It didn't go much better than his first attempt, so soon he was groaning and sighing in frustration anyway, unaware that the other person in the room was glaring at him. He laid his head – quietly, this time – on the desk again, blocking out the afternoon sunlight with his arms, and flipping his hood over his head.

"I hate maths." He mumbled into the hand his cheek rested on.

"It's not even difficult." Replied Castiel, who was looking at Dean's pitiful attempts at MacLeod's questions. Dean recoiled immediately, almost falling out of his seat.

"What the- how did- how did you get there?" He spluttered, trying to regain his composure. He had pretty acute senses, but he didn't hear Novak move at all. Castiel was looking down at him, seemingly unamused. As if to reinforce his statement, he pointed to Dean's messy sheet of paper. "We've done this three times in class already." Dean glowered at the paper. He knew it was wrong.

"Yeah, well, maybe three times wasn't enough. Not all of us sit around and swot all day, Novak." He growled. If Castiel was annoyed by this comment, he masked it incredibly well. In fact, Dean could have likened his face to a statue.

"Suit yourself." He said, and turned to go. _Bastard._

"Novak." The boy turned around, eyebrows slightly raised in false innocence. "Just do the goddamn equation."

With the slightest smirk, Castiel picked up Dean's pen, and began to write. But rather than a quick, casual solution, the boy wrote with care, going through the entire process and noting each step. Dean watched as he reread his work, blue eyes flickering quickly from left to right, but he was quickly done. Wordlessly, he slid the piece of paper back to Dean, and stood silently as it was studied. Rubbing his forehead distractedly, Dean frowned. "What's wrong?" Castiel asked, not sounding particularly sympathetic.

"I actually understand it."

"How unusual for you." Neither one of them smiled.

"This must be easy to you, then." Dean turned in his seat and leaned back, getting a better look at Castiel. Almost imperceptibly, Castiel shifted away from his gaze. He was not used to being looked at.

"You could probably say that."

"So why bother? You could do this without all the extra effort." Castiel shook his head, and looked towards the window, wringing his hands uneasily.

"I need a job."

Dean looked at him. Castiel saw but didn't react. "I mean," He continued, "I need to make sure I get one. I don't want my mother to have to pay for everything. Or my brother."

"You could get a part-time job now." Dean suggested unhelpfully. Now Castiel did look at him, and his gaze was intense, but not accusing.

"No, I couldn't." Castiel held up a hand before Dean could ask. "You _know_ why."

Dean did know why. Their town was not a fair-minded one. Not hostile enough to confront the individuals they didn't like, but bitter enough to drop hints. Castiel would probably have a hard time finding someone who'd take him, unless it was somebody who hadn't heard.

 _Why is he telling me this?_

He didn't know, but it was more interesting than the silent treatment he usually got. "Well, at least you're smart enough to get one. I can't even pass math." He said, looking at Castiel's perfect written explanation. In response, Castiel snorted.

"You've got your father's business to fall back on though, haven't you?" he retorted. "What do I have?"

Dean looked up into the Castiel's exasperated face, then down at the paper in front of him, and in his mind an idea began to form. A sudden thought, a tiny one that grew and grew until you convinced yourself there was simply no other way. It was stupid, it was probably not going to end well, but it was worth a shot. "What if you got a job there?"

Castiel looked at him sceptically. "At your dad's place?" Dean's voice took on a peculiar eager tone, unusual to his sullen teenage character.

"You could do admin, or something. You're good at math. You could teach me too – in exchange. No one would even know." The last sentence was something of a plea.

Castiel was silent for a moment. "You could really do that?" He asked, carefully. Dean nodded. He needed this.

"Fine."

Dean suddenly remembered a tiny problem, making his success short-lived. His friends. "Er, how do you think you're, er, going to teach me? I mean, I can't really-"

"Be seen with me?" Castiel's voice was suddenly dry. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Dean glanced towards the door. He was pretty sure it was MacLeod.

"Ye-I mean, no, it's just, y'know what I mean." Castiel smiled. It made Dean uneasy. He had not seen him smile before.

The footsteps were getting closer. Dean shifted nervously in his seat.

"I think I have a solution." Castiel spoke so softly, Dean almost didn't hear.

"What- _argh!_ "

In a movement so quick Dean almost didn't see it coming, the smaller teen had punched Dean in the face. Immediately, his eyes watered, and- _god, it hurt like hell_. His hand flew to touch his nose. When he lifted it, his fingers were red.

Dean was on his feet before he knew it. _The little-_

He was seeing red everywhere now, and advanced towards Novak, knocking over his chair without knowing, or perhaps without caring. "You piece of-"

" _Winchester! Novak!_ "

Mr MacLeod stood in the doorway, furious. "Two weeks more of detention for you both. _How dare you?_ Get out!"

Dean stared at Castiel, open-mouthed. Castiel shrugged, picked up his bag, and left without a word.

 _Bastard._


End file.
